


A (T)horny Entanglement

by taran



Series: Manhandling Without Plot [1]
Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: Choose your own adventure which one you like, Gen, Manhandling Without Plot, Non-Episode Specific, Now get ready for MWP, One Shot, Platonic Relationships, Pre-Slash, That's it that's all guys, Y'all have heard of PWP, does what it says on the tin
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-08
Updated: 2020-02-08
Packaged: 2021-02-27 20:00:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,861
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22611424
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/taran/pseuds/taran
Summary: "Will you go,” he’s shoving, pushing, Geralt doesn’t budge an inch. Jaskier swears. “I’ll, I’ll hide in a coal shed or something! Won’t be the first time.”“No,” is all Geralt grunts, a punched-out, angry sound. Then an iron band of an arm closes around Jaskier’s back and ribs. Geralt ducks down to his height and heaves. Jaskier just barely manages not to fall as he is half-carried down the alley. After a few flailing moments of sputtering, he throws his arm over Geralt’s shoulders (like swaddling a mountain,lord) and the other hand gropes instinctively until he finds a handhold on Geralt’s armor.His useless leg nearly tangles with Geralt’s. The Witcher snarls, reaches over to fist his free hand in Jaskier’s belt, and half heaves Jaskier up onto his thigh.“Run, dammit!”
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: Manhandling Without Plot [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1626946
Comments: 13
Kudos: 477





	A (T)horny Entanglement

**Author's Note:**

> I'm a serious author.

“Shit, shit, Geralt-” Jaskier careens into the alleyway wall with a distressed twang of lute-case on stone, stumbles, and shoves off in a wobble-kneed run. He is panting but with breath enough still to complain, “-I told you, I absolutely told you this would happen, did I not? Take the money up front, Geralt, I said, don’t tempt the frothing mobs a second time, Geralt, but no-”

“Jaskier-”

“-no, oh no, I’m a big bad Witcher, bust out the pitchforks and torches, I fear nothing, not mobs, not being run out of town, not even _not getting paid!_ ” Jaskier ends on a shout because, really, for a man whose life is money and monsters he is absolutely a terrible money manager. The town had not been terribly enamored of Jaskier and his songs (which, really, spoke to bad taste if nothing else). Without Jaskier’s usual contribution to their shared funds, they had been relying on this contract to see them through the end of the month. Or at least to Lyria, damn it!

At his side, Geralt snatches a hard hand around his elbow and hauls him down a branching alley when he otherwise would have gone on straight. His teeth, open in preparation for further scathing commentary, click together painfully.

“Talk less,” is all Geralt tells him, to which he makes a boiling tea kettle noise of indignation. Then it’s all Jaskier can do to keep up with his greater strides.

Jaskier isn’t quite sure himself where they are, but Geralt seems to know where he is going. They had left Roach tied up just outside of town-- because Geralt had know, deep down, that Jaskier was right, he sulks-- and theoretically they just need to reach her. From what Jaskier has seen, the mob consists largely of peasants with farm equipment, so one they were on Roach there shouldn’t be any real danger.

As if his thoughts summon it, they turn the next corner onto a larger lane and an arrow whizzes past Jaskier’s ear. Apparently their pursuers knew where they were going better than he and split to cut off their escape. He jerks instinctively away from the whistle, overcorrects, and goes down on one twisted ankle. 

Jaskier has taken more than his fair share of falls in life, however, and he pops up before Geralt can even reach for him. “Go on, go! Shit,” he gasps, and takes off again. Adrenaline pounds its way through him so that it’s a long few seconds before he even hears the shouts and calls of the mob behind them. Gods be good, what is wrong with them? Geralt just helped them, damn them! Except, apparently, they hadn’t wanted that particular beastie killed. Something about it killing travelers and leaving their belongings and gold behind to be scavenged by the more misanthropic of townsfolk. The local Viscount who had hired them on hadn’t liked the ill name his little hamlet was gaining abroad, not that these people care. All they knew was that Geralt had halted their secondary income.

Buzzing and infuriated, he barely manages to match Geralt when the man pivots without warning into another side alley. And quite good, too. The clatter of arrows off stone sends Jaskier leaping stupidly forward, dodging rubbish, crates, another alley, another corner-- he's falling behind, surely they must be getting close? Geralt glances back at him, reaches out and curls a fist in his doublet, and Jaskier-

-buckles, ankle rolling. He rights, tries for another step, and in putting weight on the ankle it’s as if all the pain that had been held off by adrenaline now slams into him. He goes down, only to be yanked half-up by Geralt. 

“Oh, fuck,” he wretches, sounding like a man a second off from puking. It’s not the pain that hits him with nausea, not really. It’s the fear. In a span of two seconds, Jaskier sees them as they are: Geralt supporting him with his legs folding like a newborn doe beneath him, the unknown distance between them and their getaway, and closing din of the crowd, and thinks, _I’m going to get Geralt killed._

“What? What?” Geralt demands, golden eyes just a hair wider than usual as other hand comes around to Jaskier’s forearm to steady him. Jaskier tries to stand, he really does, but- “Fuck,” he spits again, sweat immediately beading on his nose as he goes clammy all over. “My ankle, shit, Geralt, I can’t- you’ve got to go, get to Roach.”

“What the fuck, Jaskier?” He sounds more pissed than, well, whatever else Jaskier had expected. Certainly not gratitude. Jaskier shoves him anyway.

“They don’t want me, it’s you! Will you go,” he’s shoving, pushing, Geralt doesn’t budge an inch. Jaskier swears. “I’ll, I’ll hide in a coal shed or something! Won’t be the first time.”

“No,” is all Geralt grunts, a punched-out, angry sound. Then an iron band of an arm closes around Jaskier’s back and ribs. When Geralt ducks down to his height and heaves, Jaskier just barely manages not to fall as he is half-carried down the alley. After a few flailing moments of sputtering, he throws his arm over Geralt’s shoulders (like swaddling a mountain, _lord_ ) and the other hand gropes instinctively until he finds a handhold on Geralt’s armor.

His useless leg nearly tangles with Geralt’s. The witcher snarls, reaches over to fist his free hand in Jaskier's belt, and half heaves Jaskier up onto his thigh. 

“Run, dammit!”

And gods, it’s awkward, but Jaskier finds, suddenly, as his one good leg frantically swings then touches down, that they are making progress. Seeing as Geralt is moving both of them, he does his best to keep his throbbing ankle and associated leg half-lifted out of the way from where it wants to tangle between Geralt’s tree trunks. After a grueling eternity of seconds they find a rhythm that works. Together they fly down one last, long close between a public house and a creamery, turn the corner, and Jaskier spots Roach. 

“Oooohthankyougods,” he groans out through their final sprint, desperate not just because they are being chased. He can already feel the bruise forming from Geralt’s fierce grip under his armpit.

They stop just long enough for Geralt to release him and unhitch Roach. A hop brings Jaskier up to her side to sling his lute to her saddlebags. (Unforgivably, he doesn’t think they have time for him to ask if he can ride Roach. Better to beg forgiveness than ask permission and get skewered by an angry mob.)

Another problem presents itself. Jaskier wheels frantically to his companion.

“Shit, Geralt, I can’t- my ankle, the stirrup--”

Geralt gives him a flat-eyed look that Jaskier would normally take offense to and that Geralt would normally mean him to. All it takes is one long stride to bring him directly into Jaskier’s space. Without a pause of warning, he grasps Jaskier soundly about the waist with two massive hands and lifts him with barely a grunt. Jaskier, an average sized man, leaves his heart down on the ground. He makes a sound he’s not heard himself make before (and, frankly, would prefer no one else hear ever again.)

His seat hits the saddle. It’s a near thing to get his leg swung up and over the horn. He is already wriggling back, a shade too frantic for a mincing Roach, to try and get to his customary seat on top of Geralt’s bedroll when Geralt shoves him forward with a rough hand at the base of his spine and a growl.

“Jaskier, stop moving!”

“I’m just-”

“ _Still,_ ” Geralt snaps. Jaskier is still. It’s all the opening Geralt needs to swing up into the saddle behind him. 

It’s a tight fit. Jaskier finds himself shoved forward with the saddle horn in a terribly delicate place as Geralt nudges his own thighs right under the bard’s to get to the stirrups. Jaskier whimpers. 

Potential trauma to his prized jewels aside, Jaskier can prioritize, especially with the sound of the mob drawing close enough that he swears he smells the ale on their breaths. He grabs for the reins, gives a firm but gentle tug, and with a nudge Roach turns them to the road.

Apparently impatient, Geralt reaches around him on either side, jerks the reins from his grasp and-- Jaskier has a premonition, a prophecy, a growing dread of realization, and in his highest octave chants, “Oh, no, no, no, wait!” Predictably, Geralt does not wait. With a flick of the reins, he has Roach rolling into a full gallop down the byway just as shouts breaks around the corner of the creamery.

Roach, a good and loyal steed, does as her master bids. The first few immense rolls of her gallop nearly pitch Jaskier off. Frantic, he latches on to the sturdiest thing available which isn't attempting to geld him, namely Geralt’s thighs, and holds on for dear life. They barely make it a handful of heartbeats down the road before he can’t take it. He shoves backwards in the saddle, gaining blessed inches between his, ah, instrument and the horn even as it means sliding nearly on top of Geralt’s lap. The relief is nearly worth headbutting Geralt in the process. Apologetic and breathless, cursing, he leans forward to give the touchily un-touchy witcher space even as he firmly plasters their hips together because no way he is mincing his tender meat to appease a certain someone’s emotional-cum-physical distance. He feels as much as hears Geralt grunt by the twitch in his stomach against Jaskier’s back.

“What are you doing?” he demands.

“No- just, it’s," Jaskier wheezes, "this saddle isn’t made for two, you see, if you’d just let me, I’m just trying to make some room-”

They both wobble precariously. Roach slows a moment, ears and one eye flicking back in reproach, and Jaskier would hate to anger the lady of the hour, their equine savior, but he really is in some danger of mangling, here. 

Geralt sighs against his neck. All the hairs between there and Jaskier’s wrists stand immediately, shamelessly on end.

“Be still before you drag us both off,” he admonishes-- far more mildly than Jaskier had expected. But then a hand nearly as broad across as his waist presses against his stomach and slides him neatly back atop Geralt’s lap. The man himself rocks his hips back-- off the saddle, Jaskier thinks. His thoughts come in what could only be called breathless though his lungs were in no way involved. The move opens up a satisfactory gap between the horn and Jaskier’s… horn… and, well…

Jaskier really can’t argue past that. They ride for the neighboring village with Jaskier bracketed in and the two of them plastered knee to shoulder. Embarrassingly, even if his tangling with the horn had been very short lived, he still finds himself walking tenderly the next day, and it’s not because of his ankle.

Geralt starts taking half-pay up front at the first hint of village disapproval. He doesn't offer a limping Jaskier to ride Roach, however, and the bard can't quite say he minds.

**Author's Note:**

> Just a little light manhandling to get us warmed up...


End file.
